


fair good night

by disastermovie



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Boys In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Trans Male Character, mlm author, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disastermovie/pseuds/disastermovie
Summary: Henry found himself happy in this life that he'd stumbled into, half-guessing and making things up as he went, grasping onto John somewhere along the line and not letting go.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	fair good night

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that Peglar has a beard in the mid-1840s. Yes, I halved the age difference 'cause it wasn't even historically accurate to begin with and Dan Simmons can fight me in the Waffle House parking lot at 3 AM. Yes, this fic is just an excuse to indulge my gay trans ass [insert obligatory trans-experiences-are-not-universal disclaimer here]. <strike>Blame any typos on me posting this at 4 AM on a Saturday.</strike>
> 
> Thanks to Zoe for encouraging this and my incredibly patient roommate for listening as I rambled about this fic out loud, even though she has no idea what I'm talking about ever and isn't gonna read this. You two are the real heroes.
> 
> Title from "Endymion" by John Keats (line 998 of Book IV). I talk about some history things in the end notes.

Henry loves the sea. He's never felt freer anywhere else; even when he was just a ship's boy, running back and forth at the officers' beck and call, just standing in a hallway as they rocked along unfamiliar waves filled him with a peace he'd never known before or since. 

Back after that first voyage, when he'd been left alone for a few moments at port, he'd considered it - disappearing back into his old self, finding his family and coming up with an impossible story behind his disappearance, leaving this adventure behind as some sort of wonderful dream. But he never had. More than twelve years later, now a seaman, he never reconsidered that choice. He’d never been a girl nor wanted to be. Or maybe he had, once, a long time ago. He’s been a man for far longer, which he feels matters a lot more.

Of course, it'd make things much easier. Hypothetically. There'd be no anxiety every time he changed among the men; no constant awareness of how deep he pitched his voice or how his hips were just on the side of too womanly; no stress during those cursed few days once a month. The occasional sore rib from the bindings were easy enough to hide, along with the cramps and the soreness, but it was difficult finding rags and then cleaning them secretly. Finding any amount of privacy was difficult. He slipped at times. He always worried that this would be it - that this was his grand mistake and now he'd be found and cast out - but nobody ever noticed.

Except for John. Not right away; it took nearly a year of their reading lessons and the slowly-maturing companionship between them for that to happen. Their lessons continued, and they grew even closer as friends. Henry learned about John's past travels and favorite poems and thoughts on philosophy, while Henry shouted about the stories they read and shared tidbits from his childhood - the nicer memories of him and his sisters, the scrapes that they'd find themselves in. They'd come to be each others' confidants soon enough; Henry grew bold enough to come to his cabin to pass the time between watches and other duties, while John would seek him out to just talk. Or, as it tended to be, spend long periods in companionable silence. Henry felt...

Henry _felt_.

It was at the fourteen-month-mark of the _Beagle_'s voyage when Henry knew that John knew. He never said anything or told him how he'd figured it out. The looks he'd give him were enough, along with slipping him old shirts beyond repair ("I'm sure you can find a better use for these...") or spare trousers that were a touch too big (but worked for Henry while John worried about cleaning the bloodstained trousers away from prying eyes) all the while without saying a word. And it was nice, to know there was someone in his life who knew. Who cared. Who wanted to make Henry comfortable, happy, and safe. Just as Henry wanted to do for John, in different ways. He'd help with his duties; debate with him about _Crusoe_; come up with ridiculous tales and jokes. Anything that would make John grace him with his smile.

Things were good. _They_ were good. And Henry found himself happy in this life that he'd stumbled into, half-guessing and making things up as he went, grasping onto John somewhere along the line and not letting go.

John was kind enough to let Henry stay with him after they'd returned to England, after Henry argued that an extra cot would cost less than another bedroom. And after the first week, when they were getting ready for bed, John had touched his shoulder. "You can take the bindings off." He gestured at his chest, while Henry stood frozen. "Whenever you want, instead of waiting for me to fall asleep. I know it hurts your ribs; I wouldn't say a word, otherwise. But I want you to be comfortable here, in your own home." John stroked his thumb on his shoulder, trying to calm him, and Henry felt that gentleness through the thin fabric of his night shirt like a brand on bare skin.

So here Henry is, three months later, sitting at their table with his chest unbound under his shirt. He's been staring blankly at the novel he'd really intended on reading half an hour ago. When he looks up, John is watching him from across the table with his notebook abandoned, a smile on his face.

"What?" says Henry, though he smiles back.

John shakes his head and looks back down. "Sorry- It's nothing."

Under the table, Henry nudges at his leg. "No, tell me."

After a moment, John's smile returns. He closes his notebook to look back up at Henry. "I was just thinking..."

"About?"

"You." Henry blinks. "And your Austen. We've only got the two books of hers, and you've read both more than a few times. I was thinking of going to the shops tomorrow and getting another."

"Oh, well. I wouldn't say no to that." He fiddles with the edge of a faded page, not letting the sudden way his heart had stopped a moment ago show. "Though, you don't have to, just for me."

John laughs. "It'd be for me, too. Not to say that I wouldn't mind getting you your own copy."

"No, no. I like sharing the books with you. It's nice." Like they share the rent, the table, the food, their lives. It's all nice.

"That's good. I feel the same."

"Good."

"Good."

They sit there for a few more moments. Henry waits for John to look away. He doesn't, so neither does Henry. They sometimes do this; watching each other, before one of them breaks the silence. They don't discuss it. John's eyes are a dark brown, shining in the sunset that pokes a few stray rays into their flat. It would be so easy, to take his face in his hands, to push a few strands of hair behind his ear, to lean in and-

Henry shuts his book as the ball at Netherfield begins. "Would you read to me?"

John's eyes crinkle. "Of course." He stands, stretching a bit as he steps toward the bookshelf. "Anything in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know." Henry watches John's back. The sun is setting, and he notices the way the sunlight catches John's hair, giving him almost a halo as he runs a reverent hand over the spines. "How d'you feel about 'Endymion'?"

The sun shines through the window, John smiles at him again, and Henry feels so warm. "Oh, I like it well enough." John pulls out the book, gentle fingers tracing the cover as he smiles at it so fondly. "Poor Shelley and Coleridge - always skipped over for Keats." He doesn't mention how long the poem is, how they'll need the lamplight halfway through while they stay up together. Usually, Henry would be the one reading to John. It was nice, even as he stumbled over syllables or asked what a word meant. Not like John, who could read poetry like it was music. Or something akin to it. He always sounds lovely to Henry. John doesn't seem to mind the change of pace at all, nor staying up later than usual.

When he returns, he moves his chair closer to Henry's, so that they can both see the book. Their shoulders brush. "Now," says John, then: "_A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: / its loveliness increases; it will never / pass into nothingness; but still will keep / a bower quiet for us, and a sleep / full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing..._"

* * *

Thunder cracks, nearly shaking the building's foundations, and Henry hears John shift around again.

"You can't sleep, either?"

A long sigh. "Not at all. Should I...?"

"Might as well."

Sheets rustle near his feet. Henry leans up on his elbows and squints; John is a fuzzy, undefined shape in the darkness as he steps out of his bed. A few moments of shuffling and banging his hip against the table later, the lamp bathes the room in a warm glow. John sleeps without a shirt. Henry keeps his head down as he sits up, until he hears a creaking and John's sigh as he gets back in bed. Henry blinks when he sees that John's leaned against his wall - John's bed was in the corner and Henry's was put against the adjoining wall, so that the feet of their beds joined. John just wants to talk, to pass the time till they're tired enough to try sleeping again. Henry shifts until he's sitting at the edge of his own bed beside John, knees drawn up to his chest.

Again, there's thunder, slowly followed by a flash in the distance. Henry laughs a bit.

John turns to him, smile soft. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Henry shrugs. "I was just thinking- We can sleep like the dead on a ship of over one hundred men on choppy waters, but not through an English rainstorm."

"Ah. The sea's a bit more calming, I'd argue - it's being rocked in a giant cradle versus being shaken out of bed because God struck the earth a few miles away."

"You don't believe in God."

John taps the side of his nose; Henry snorts, nudging him with his elbow. They don't speak for a while, after that, content with watching the rain hitting their window, an occasional lightning strike illuminating the skyline and thunder rumbling overhead. If Henry moves closer by fractions of centimeters, until he and John are almost-but-not-quite pressed side to side, then he’ll blame it on the drowsiness. John doesn't ask, just relaxes a bit so that their arms press together, the thin cotton of Henry's nightshirt the only thing separating them.

Henry breaks the silence. “I’m happy, you know."

John smiles. “I’m glad.”

”No, I mean-“ Henry looks John in the eyes for this because this is important. “Yes, right now, but also, just... Being your friend. Living with you. I feel safe here, and happy, because of you. I thought you’d like to know.”

John blinks. Henry doesn't look away, so neither does he. Outside, the rain keeps pouring, thunder and lightning raging in the distance, but there's nothing in here besides the yellow glow of the oil lamp and the warmth of John's arm against Henry's. His hand is so close; it lays palm-side up at Henry's feet, on the bare sheets, and- If Henry were to let go of his knees, just with his left arm, lower it beside him; to lay his left hand over John's right-

They continue watching each other. John's eyes are so brown. Henry has counted to twelve when John finally curls his fingers around his hand.

"I'm glad," whispers John, "that I can make you happy. As you do for me."

Henry kisses him.

Henry knows that he's inexperienced; he's only kissed someone once before, a neighbor boy whose name he doesn't remember, back when he still helped his mother at home while his father ran the shop and he hadn't yet understood what was behind his constant melancholy. It'd been messy, a bit too much teeth, very dry lips. The boy had been disappointed when Henry hadn't wanted to try again. John's lips are soft, his beard a pleasant contrast, and he holds his hand in a tight grip. When John slowly moves his lips against Henry's, Henry can't help but moan. _Finally_, _finally_, _fin_-

John pulls away as if burned. Henry follows him, before he's registered what's happened, and John shoves him back. Henry catches himself and freezes; John is staring at him, eyes wide.

"What," says Henry.

He's never seen John this distressed. "Henry, we _can't_."

Henry blinks. "What do you- John." Henry reaches for him, and John scrambles back.

"No, Henry. I won't do that to you."

There's a sudden flash of lightning; the thunder follows quickly, the vibrations shaking Henry to his bones. He thinks, vaguely, that he should say something, anything, but he can only open and close his mouth like a fish. John runs a hand through his hair. Henry's stomach hurts. 

"Just. You understand, don't you? Why I... You need to..."

It takes a few tries for Henry to say, "John," and John stops talking. "You kissed me back."

John says nothing. He just keeps staring, though its not at all pleasant, looking absolutely terrified as he does.

"If- If you don't want me-" and that _hurts_, to think that Henry's so completely misread everything between them, that he's been harboring a useless infatuation for the better half of a decade, even if John looks at him like he does and says his name so softly, "-then you can just say so. You can tell me."

But John only looks devastated. "No, no," he murmurs, reaching out toward him, then lets his hand fall onto the sheets. "That's not it. Please, don't think that."

"What _should_ I be thinking? I thought, when you said that - and looked at me - and you held my hand..." He's unused to this, of being careful with his words around John, looking so much like a skittish animal. Not that Henry knows where he would go, if he managed to scare him off, though he isn't keen on finding out. "Do you want this or not?"

"I want-" He purses his lips. "You know my reputation."

Henry blinks. John's reputation - the reputation that had given him that hope in the first place, the knowledge that John could look at men that way, and might even look at Henry in such a way. If he truly viewed him as a man. To touch him, like that. _That_ was why John couldn't... "I don't understand."

"People _talk_. It's bad enough, you living with me. If there was any serious suspicion- If someone brought us to them and you were questioned, you'd-" He chokes up and won't look Henry in the eyes. "You don't want to be tied to me, with all that on the line."

"That's not-"

"It's alright, Henry." John looks toward the window. "I'm lucky to still have my career. Besides - I'm ten years your senior. You're young, you have so much life ahead of you. You're living as you should have been your whole life and I won't risk that for you. Please. Let it go; we can forget this."

If that was meant to calm him, Henry only feels more stressed, a bit of anger rising beneath the dawning understanding and fear. "No. You kissed me back. You _want_ me back. I want you, too, and you don't get to choose that for me."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"I didn't ask you to."

"I know, but-"

"I can make my own decisions."

"I _know_."

"Unless you forgot, I've been living like this longer than I've known you; I know the risks-"

"_Henry_, I _know_."

"-but you're still here, trying to warn me off like that'll scare me, when it obviously wasn't enough before!" Henry doesn't mention that he _is_ terrified, right now, for very different reasons. "And, god, could you look me in the eyes when we're discussing this?" He doesn't. "John. Please, look at me."

John turns his face to the ceiling. "I know what happens to men like me. It would be even worse, for you. You don't want that."

"I want _you_. I love you." And Henry hadn't intended to say it, but there it was, and it was true, even if it made John shut his eyes tight like it pained him. "Do you know that? I love you."

"It'll pass."

It's not unlike a slap in the face. "I've loved you for years."

"_God_," says John, covering his face with his hand.

"I don't care about your reputation. I've known from the moment I met you; the other seamen warned me. And then you paid attention to me, and weren't annoyed when I asked you about Crusoe or Aristotle, and then you agreed to teach me how to read them on my own and write my thoughts down, and you _wanted_ my company. You wanted me around. Even when you _knew_ that I'm..." He lets it hang between them, the thing he doesn't have a proper word for.

John is still. Slowly, oh so slowly, Henry reaches for the hand still on the bed. "I know what I'm doing," he says, softly, "I knew before I met you, when being myself was dangerous enough. I still sought you out. You don't think I still want you, knowing all that? _I'm_ the one who asked you for lessons. _I'm_ the one who wanted to move in." He hesitates for a moment. John lets the hand fall from his face, then finally, finally looks back at Henry. "I'd never get tired of Aristotle or Voltaire or any one of your great thinkers, if you were the one reading them to me. And you put up with me, when I rant about a nonsense plot for hours, or take so long to read one line, or need you to explain a word to me, and I can't read poetry nearly as... as pretty as you, or..."

John's eyes shine in the lamplight, now. "I don't put up with anything. Your voice is lovely."

Henry's eyes burn, just a bit. "You're everything I want, old books and bloody reputation and all. You make me so happy." His voice cracks; he swallows it back down, hand tightening around John's. "Even if you act like a fool when I tell you so."

That gets a tired sort of laugh out of John, at least. The only sound beyond their breathing is the rain against their window. The foundations settle, and Henry can feel his blood rush behind his ears, until John pulls his hand up to cup his cheek. They stay like that for a time, until Henry turns his head, just to kiss John's palm. "Oh, Henry." Then, after a few moments, voice thick: "Dear one."

When Henry leans forward again, even slower and more careful than the first time, John doesn't move away.

The kiss is slow, their lips soft and questioning. John holds his face in his hands, tracing his cheeks with his fingers, while Henry reaches up to run his own through John's hair. His breath is shaky when they pull back, foreheads resting together. "I love you," says Henry, again, and John shudders. He's about to tell him that _you don't have to say it back, it's alright, I know_, but then John kisses him again and Henry's happy to say nothing else.

It's better, so much better than the first or even second time. There's no hesitation; John is sure in his movements, in the way he cups the back of Henry's neck, their beards rubbing wonderfully against each other. Henry does his best to match him, as they move on to the fourth kiss, to the fifth, the seventh, the tenth. Each kiss is deeper and longer and better than the last. John plays with the hair at the nape of Henry's neck, and he tightens his grip in John's. He gasps, then sighs in response, opening his mouth for Henry.

John is panting when he murmurs, "Henry. Are you _sure_ I'm what you want?"

"_Yes_," says Henry, only a _little_ exasperated by all the convincing that he wants John so _badly_, and kisses him deeply to make the point.

It's overly enthusiastic, their teeth audibly clicking together, but John doesn't seem to mind. He tilts his head so that their lips connect right, sliding over each other so smoothly, still managing to kiss back just as hard. Henry moans, the sound swallowed up by John's open mouth. He wraps his arms around John's neck as he presses himself against his chest. John welcomes him, letting go of his face to wrap his arms tight around him, pulling him close and rearranging them until Henry is straddling his lap. It's _very_ nice.

He strokes down John's his bare chest, running his fingers through the hair there. There's no space between them. He can feel the stirring in John's underwear and it fills him with excitement. On Henry's end, the feeling of those strong hands on his back send warm pulses straight between his legs. John's hands dip lower and lower, until he's kneading Henry's arse through his underwear. Henry hadn't realized how sensitive he was until just then; now his whole body is alight, wherever he's touching the man before him. Henry really doesn't mean to make the noises that he does, really, but it's a bit hard to stop when they come and make John even _more_ passionate.

When Henry moans just this side of too loud, John rushes to cover his mouth with one hand. John's eyes are wide in a completely different way than before, brown eyes dark in the lamplight, though he's stiffened a bit. Both of them are panting, while thunder rolls in the distance and Mr. Wallace snores next door. Henry waits a moment before taking John's hand off his mouth. "Sorry," he mock-whispers, interlocking their fingers.

John relaxes, a smile forming on his face. "Suppose I should take that as a compliment."

"Cheeky!" Henry swats at his arm with his free hand as they both descend into giggles. Their foreheads touch, laughter subsiding, and they stay like that for some time. John cups Henry's face; he leans into it, feeling so at peace. Eventually, he says, "I'd like to... How far do you want to go, now?"

"How far are you thinking?" John strokes his cheek, eyes soft.

"...You know I've never done this before."

"I'd guessed, yes." At Henry's slight frown, he adds, "I meant- I figured it would be difficult, considering-" His jaw shuts with an audible clack.

Henry sighs. "No, you're right." With his free hand, he starts tracing John's tattoo, which is suddenly much more interesting than looking him in the face. "I've been in the Navy since I first started living like this. As a man. It makes things... difficult, but you already know that."

John looks a bit sad, now, as he peppers a few kisses across Henry's jaw. "I know. I'm sorry that I mentioned it."

"It's fine." He brushes their noses together, eyes shut. He remembers his loneliness and tries to push it away, where it can't get to him, safe and warm in John's lap. "I'm glad I'm with you, now - and I still want to do this. With you."

"Are you-"

"John, if you ask _if I'm sure_ again, I'll have no choice but to throw Herodotus' _Histories_ out the window."

John gasps, his smile returning. "You wouldn't."

"Would you like to find out?" says Henry, laughing into John's answering kiss as he pushes him onto the bed.

They keep kissing as they settle before they're side-by-side, clutching at each other. Each kiss intensifies, and Henry still hold's John's hand tightly, until he lets go to rest both palms on his chest. John's heart beats rapidly, mirroring Henry's own, but it's not bad. It's not bad at all. John's hands start to drift again, which isn't bad, either. Henry helps to ruck his shirt up, so that John can get his hands beneath it to caress Henry's bare back, to trail fingers along his waist and up his stomach, to rest his hands on his-

Henry does a weird sort of flinch as he pulls away. John's hands rush back down to Henry's waist. "Sorry, I'm sorry-"

"No, it's fine, you didn't know, just-" Henry grabs one of his wrists to still his fluttering. He's fine; it was a discomfort, an unfortunate mistake, but he's alright. They're alright, and he still wants this, now, but- "Just. Not the chest, please."

John nods. "Alright." He looks like he wants to apologize again. Henry kisses him instead, shutting him up, until they've both relaxed again. Slowly, he pulls John's hand, taking it just a bit lower...

"Wait, wait."

Henry stops. "Oh, do you not want to-" But John shakes his head.

"No, I do, I just... I'm not sure what you like. I want to make this good for you."

The words send a ripple down Henry's spine. "You will." Still guiding John's hand, their hands slip beneath his underwear. His heart pounds in his ears while John seems to have stopped breathing entirely; their fingers push through the thick hair there, and Henry isn't sure which of them is trembling, and then-

"_Oh_," he gasps, as John's finger slowly pushes inside of him. He shuts his eyes and clutches at John's wrist so tightly that he's worried he'll bruise him.

John keeps pushing, till he's in at the knuckle, palm pressed flat between Henry's legs. "You're wet," says John, sounding awed. Henry means to reply. When John circles his finger inside of him, eyebrows furrowed like he's experimenting, all Henry can do is let out a high-pitched and distinctly un-masculine, "_Fuck_." He drops his head to John's shoulder.

John groans and presses a kiss to Henry's temple. "Is that good?"

"It's good," mumbles Henry, kissing John's neck, grinding against his hand. He feels shaky, hot, and light-headed. He's done this to himself plenty of times before, but no one else ever has, and John- His fingers are calloused, and warm, and bigger, enough for Henry to feel it inside. It feels good. The fact that he doesn't know exactly what John plans to do next makes it all the more intense. They go on for a bit like that, until Henry is properly wet and aching. "You can- Add another finger. Please."

John nods, waiting a moment before pulling out of Henry; Henry's whine is replaced with another curse as John pushes two fingers back inside, the slide much easier, now. Henry adjusts, hips circling, thighs shaking. He realizes he's left John wanting, so he pulls his hand up and places it down on the hard-on straining beneath John's underwear. Squeezes. John rewards him with a barely muffled cry of, "_Oh_, dear one."

The thin fabric doesn't leave much to the imagination. The only sounds that John makes are sighs or pants, the occasional soft groan or whimper slipping through. Henry thinks, dizzily, that he should be getting him off skin-to-skin, but John makes it hard to think, what with the way he crooks his fingers inside and makes Henry stifle high-pitched moans and cries against his neck, back arching.

"John." Henry pulls his head back, each breath a heavy thing, to look John in the eye. His face is flushed, Henry realizes, and eyes dark. "Could you take your pants off?"

A shaky breath. "Yes. Of course, yes," and John pulls his fingers out once more. He smears the wetness against Henry's stomach, eyes never leaving his, and it makes his blood run near to boiling.

He lets go of Henry entirely to undo his drawer ties. Henry does the same, nearly falling off the narrow bed in his haste to pull them down. John gets them off first - and _oh_, Henry has no real frame of reference beyond the other seamen that he never looked at too closely, but the sight of John naked makes him tremble, not at all in nervousness - then Henry, shoving them down and kicking them off at the ankles before he can lose his nerve. The shirt stays on, though he pulls it up a bit, enough to expose his stomach and below.

Neither of them say a word when they lay back down. Henry looks at John, hard as he his between his legs, and aches to touch, but holds still. John's eyes are wide and _hungry_, hands twitching at his sides as his gaze travels over him. He swallows. "Come here," says Henry.

They meet in the middle, mouths hitting a little too hard, but Henry can't bring himself to care. They lay beside each other, touch roaming again; John's hands trail along his stomach, careful of his chest, then go back down between his legs and squeeze his thighs. Henry loves it - the two of them pressed together, skin to skin, legs tangled. Henry's fingers scratch down John's chest, eliciting some quiet, happy sounds as little red lines form behind them. It's even better when he finally gets a hand around John's cock, curls his hand into a fist and pulls. John moans into a kiss, open mouthed, desperate.

"John," Henry groans, as he keeps stroking, John's fingers digging into his hips, "What do you like?"

"You," answers John, mouthing at Henry's jaw, hips rolling into his hand. Experimentally, Henry rubs the tip with his fingers. John bucks sharply, moaning, and wetness dribbles out out the slit. "You're doing perfectly. You're perfect. How would you like me to...?" He traces his fingers along his hip, down toward the v of his thighs.

"What you were doing before. I liked that, you can keep going." John nods; this time, they keep eye contact as he pushes his fingers back in, and the slide is even easier than before. Henry kisses him, half-desperate and half to cover his moan. 

Neither of them last long. Henry is all soft sounds and pleas, lightheaded and pouring himself into kisses, biting his lip too hard when John covers his neck in them. John brands endearments and praise into his skin, _beautiful, dear one, lovely, meus amor, darling, Henry, Henry_. The pleasure builds as he ruts against John's hand, gasping, begging, _there, John, please there, yes, yes, yes, yes_, _oh_, _oh god_, until he's throwing his head back with his mouth in a silent scream as it erupts.

Afterwards - with John still inside him, Henry shaking in the aftershocks - he rests a hand over John's heart. "C'mon," he murmurs, still catching his breath, boneless. John's free hand ends up gripping the now lax one on his cock, picking up speed. He looks at Henry like he's all he has, hair a mess, face red. His fingers slip out of him and dig into his thigh; Henry sighs, kissing John's jaw. "John. _John_. Come on, love. I know you're close; I want to see you, to feel it. C'mon, c'mon, so close, yes-"

John comes. He slams their mouths together and Henry swallows his moans, come landing warm on his stomach, on the bed, on his thighs, as John desperately rides along his own climax. Henry strokes him through it. Eventually, they reach an _actual_ kiss, once again soft and slow. John strokes his hip.

They pull back until they're looking each other in the eyes. "Hello," says John.

"Hello." Henry pushes a lock of hair out of John's face. "That was nice."

John chuckles. "It was, yes." Henry strokes his cheek and watches, feeling warm, as John smiles so softly back at him. John whispers, "_Beautiful_."

Henry shifts closer - then grimaces at the stickiness on his skin and the wet spot between them. "Eugh."

"Move to my bed?"

"_Please_."

They help each other up, legs still a bit wobbly. Henry doesn't hesitate when he pulls his shirt off, the kisses continuing as they use it to wipe each other off, discarding it on the floor. The rain is still pouring outside as they wrap their arms around each other and - just for a few moments - sway on their creaky floor, until they're practically asleep on their feet. Henry goes to put out the lamp while John gets in bed; in the darkness, Henry finds him, arms open. He settles in, kissing the spot just above John's heart. John kisses his forehead.

Henry is mostly asleep when John speaks. "Henry."

He hums in response.

"You know that... I love you. I do."

Henry nestles in closer. "Yep. I know."

"Oh." A pause. "How...?"

"It's how you look at me. How you think about me. Letting me move in, reading to me. Wanting to buy more books to read something new together. Those little things."

"Ah." John tightens his hold, pressing another kiss to Henry's forehead. Then a few more, for extra measure. "Good."

Henry hums again. "G'night, John."

"Sleep well, Henry."

_I will_, Henry thinks, smiling against John's skin.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the pink moscato that got me to write the smut ha HA (I'm on [tumblr @ diydumpsterdiving](https://diydumpsterdiving.tumblr.com/))
> 
> **History notes!:** The book they read from in the first scene is _The Poetical Works of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats: Complete in One Volume_, published in 1829. You can read the scanned copy I referenced [here](https://archive.org/details/poeticalworksof00cole) ("Endymion" begins on pp. 548, but be warned that this poem is ridiculously long at around 4000 lines and essentially novella-length). I have no clue if the real Peglar had any sisters, but we're already running fast and loose with history here, my dudes. On that note, the real Peglar was actually older than Bridgens by eight years, but I kept Bridgens older here (with a reduced age difference) cause I do love John Lynch's casting. And if anyone else is confused like I've been, "Harry" served as a 19th century nickname for "Henry," which affects a lot of characters cause like a quarter of _Terror_ and _Erebus_ are comprised of Henry's. I refer to Peglar solely as Henry here just because it's simple and Victorian naming conventions are cOnFuSiNG.


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